A Brother's Burden
by wild-springflower
Summary: They both had things that weighed on them, secrets they refused to share with the other, inner-most thoughts they would never voice.
1. The Older's Worries

**A/N: Hey guys, so this story was 110% inspired by BigChillFreak's story Hate. That's a wonderful story full of emotions, so go check that out of you haven't read it already!**

 **As far as this goes, it just basically a two-parter introspective on the characters, that type of thing. The first chapter is Ed's point of view and the second chapter will be Al's. I hope you enjoy, and if it tickles your fancy, please let me know what you think!**

He should hate me. I honestly don't understand why he doesn't. I stole _everything_ from him: his life, his body, his future. How is it fair that I get to live on? That I get to experience life when, out of the two of us, he always had more appreciation for its fragility. I don't understand, I honestly don't. Why does he stay with me? He has no reason to, none at all to stick by my side, to call me _Brother_ and trust me to fix things. To mend the mistakes that I'd made.

And yet, there's a part of me that knows if he actually left, if he told me he blamed me and he hated me, I'd break. I'd shatter into so many pieces I don't think I'd ever be whole again. So there's a selfish part of me that desperately clings to _us_ , that hopes almost painfully that he'll never say the words I'm so terrified to hear.

Maybe that's why I never share the load, tell him what's truly bothering me. After all, what right do _I_ have to complain? Complain about such mundane things like the sun against my automail, or the horrid taste of milk, or even the fatigue of walking all day. What right do I have to complain about any of that when I ripped those experiences away from him? He can't feel _anything_ , because of me.

He can't sleep, can't dream at all. He has to spend each and every night awake, alone, lost in whatever thoughts his mind conjures. So I don't tell him, about the nightmares. The ones that leave me shaking. The ones that involve me standing over a broken bloodseal, or the ones where that _thing_ is chasing me down a hallway, yelling at me, screaming, demanding to know how I could have led my little brother down this path. The ones where She proclaims it to be my fault.

So out of fear, maybe, I keep things to myself. I never share why I wake up gasping for breath and soaked with sweat. I never share where my mind wanders on long train rides, when my breathing hitches and my eyes glaze over. Most of the time I assume Al doesn't even notice, and the times he does I brush him off easily. And then quickly change the topic of conversation.

It's not ideal. But hell, nothing about our lives is ideal anymore. We gave that up a long time ago- _I_ gave that up a long time ago.

This is just the way things have to be. A burden I have to carry. _Alone_.


	2. The Younger's Woes

There are times, when I really hate him. Brother. But not for the reason he would think, not for the reason he's scared of. Never for that.

I'm fully aware that what we did was wrong, and reckless, and by all rights stupid. But we did it _together_. Sure, I questioned it more than him, I was more hesitant, but that's because I've _always_ been more cautious. In the end, I was right there kneeling before the transmutation circle with him, equally as eager to get our mother back.

So no, I don't hate him for saving my life and binding my soul to a suit of armor. Sure there are many inconveniences to being in such a strange body, but none of those are worse than death!

I hate when Brother pretends he's not hurting. When he pretends that everything is fine when it's so obviously not. He's _not_ okay, and the fact that he pretends to be, for _what_? To spare me the worry? That's what I hate.

It's not like I don't notice when things bother him, when he's tired or sore. I _want_ to offer to take breaks, or even carry him, but I know he wouldn't let me. The fact that he allows me to carry his heavy suitcase sometimes is a miracle enough. I may not be physically able to feel how long we've walked, but I can see it reflected in him, and the fact that he feels this infuriating need to push on, to keep his complaints quiet, I _hate it_.

I wish he'd tell me what was going on in his head, what scares him so badly it causes him to wake trembling, that he has trouble catching his breath. I can't help but think that, maybe if he talked about it, things would start to get _better_.

He doesn't think I notice, when his eyes glaze over and his mind is so obviously lost in some haunting memory of the past. But all I _can_ do is notice, I can't feel or experience anything anymore, not traditionally anyway. So I _notice_ things. It hurts that he doesn't ever want to open up to me.

Sometimes I try to voice my concerns, to show him my side of things. But he always brushes me off, tells me he's fine and then starts talking about something else. Maybe a new lead on the philosophers stone or some new alchemic breakthrough he'd read about, cheap meaningless chatter to keep my mind off what's actually bothering him.

I hate it, and I wish that he'd just see it's doing more harm than good. Him pretending to be strong is not _helping_ anyone.

Unfortunately this is just the way things have to be. But he will never be a _burden_ to me, and he'll never have to deal with it alone.


End file.
